


The City of Lot

by frogonalilypad



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Character of Color, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gay, Internalized Homophobia, Islam, M/M, Muslim Character, Pride, Religion, Self-Acceptance, THAT GOOD GAY SHIT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:13:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27726661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogonalilypad/pseuds/frogonalilypad
Summary: “I used to pray to be straight,” Salim says sleepily. “Five times a day. I read the story of Lot often. I used to cry.”Salim has an early morning discussion with the ifrit about how he reconciled his faith and sexuality, and learned to accept the love he was given.
Relationships: The Jinn | Ifrit/Salim (American Gods)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	The City of Lot

The City of Lot

The ifrit is woken just before dawn by Salim’s alarm. He gently shakes Salim awake, feels his cool skin against his own as he shifts. He nuzzles into the ifrit’s neck, and for five minutes they lie there in the shitty motel bed, just before dawn, each listening to the other breathe.  
A small bubble of peace during wartime.

Salim stretches and stands, and the ifrit can hear the shower in the tiny bathroom start. On impulse, he stands and gently pushes open the bathroom door. He pushes in beside Salim, who is methodically washing his hair, making sure every strand is wet.  
“I-” he looks up at the ifrit with his big doe eyes.

“I’ll pray with you.” The ifrit’s faith in capital-g God has wavered back and forth in the last fourteen hundred years, and faltered entirely in America, which was never kind to bearded men who woke at dawn to whisper Arabic words from the world’s most powerful book. 

But still, he remembers what to do. The ghusl, the ritual bath one must take after sex or menstruation (which, in their relationship, is not a concern). He washes his hands, face, hair, beard, his entire body. He leaves nothing, because that is what must be done. 

They pray together just as the dawn light breaks through the gap in the curtains. Cold after the shower, Salim at his side, the ifrit does feel cleaner. Divine presence or not, the hours on the dusty road, the desperate touches and burning heat of the night before, they seem to have sloughed off. 

Together, two men before Allah, both guiltless and free, they bow and kneel in an easy rhythm. They send their praises and thanks, and the ifrit, for the first time in more than a decade, thinks they might be warranted. These are hard times, and they have been for many years, and yet he was brought an escape. Something to actually be thankful for.

They go back to bed once the prayer is done, Salim’s head lying on the ifrit’s chest, their fingers linked. 

“I used to pray to be straight,” Salim says sleepily. “Five times a day. I read the story of Lot often. I used to cry.”

The ifrit feels a twinge, the pain deep in your soul that he thinks all those who suffer for who they love share. The pain that says yes, me too. My heart hurt wanting to like women, too. “What made you stop?” He asks.

“Realising I can’t change,” Salim replies. “Back in Oman, my mother introduced me to this girl. This family friend. And she is so nice, such a good person. So funny. I liked her a lot, and I felt so sorry for her, that if we got married, I would only ever like her as a friend, and I would probably still meet with men. She didn’t deserve that.”  
There’s a pause as Salim gathers his thoughts. “It says in the Qu’ran,” he muses, “That we were created in pairs to cover and support each other. And I thought… Either my life was some cruel test, a joke, or I was created to love another man. And I do not believe in a cruel god.” 

The ifrit feels another twinge that he’s also pretty sure the gays can universally understand: The warm pride of somebody like you deciding to rebel and love themselves. The joy of sharing space with such a person. 

“The story of Lot,” Salim says. The story of the prophet in the city of men who took other men as lovers, and for that were destroyed. It’s unambiguous. “I read every verse that spoke of it to remind myself of the punishment to come if I didn’t change.”

“But some things do not.” The ifrit runs his thumb over the back of Salim’s hand. 

“Some things do not,” he agrees. “I read the wrong parts.”

“What’s right?”

“‘We remove the sins from those who believe and do good deeds’. Allah forgives all who have faith that he will.” Salim’s eyes meet the ifrit’s fire in the pale light. “It was an evil city. I am not an evil person.”

There’s a soft quietness, broken by the occasional car on the motorway outside. “Do you believe,” asks the ifrit slowly, “That this is a sin?”

Salim’s breath is cool on his neck. He’s so quiet for a minute that the ifrit thinks he is perhaps sleeping again, but he answers. “No.” He says, with a firmness the timid businessman from New York had never had. “Love is clean. It is a gift. I am doing nothing wrong.” He squeezes the ifrit’s hand. There’s another pause. “If I get to Jannah, I’ll wait for you.”

Jannah. Paradise. Endless lush gardens of rivers and fruit trees, gold and perfume. In the ifrit’s mind, it has been almost eclipsed by the boring cloudy heaven that Hollywood liked to show. He’d forgotten. 

He could spend an eternity there, with Salim, amongst the greenery. No more false gods or hatred or fear. 

They lapse into more silence, and the ifrit feels the admiration fill him. The bravery of this mortal who flew across the ocean and decided to let his love and faith coexist. It’s the kind of human struggle his type can barely fathom. The kind of nuanced story that gods never get to live. Humans control their narratives, and they are good, or evil, or greedy. 

Perhaps the weakening of his powers in this mess of a country was some sort of blessing. He feels. 

The war looms at the end of the road. A war with no real purpose, but one that has been created by stories. 

The ifrit lies awake in the morning light, free hand softly touching Salim’s hair, and he decides that the decision he should have made is long overdue. 

When the sun rises all the way, he is taking Salim on his motorcycle and running. He’s not sure where to, where in this surreal, lonely country has even an echo of peace in these chaotic years, but he will find it. 

There will be no more war for either of them.

**Author's Note:**

> So anyway, tis evident that I have Thoughts re: Abrahamic religions and The Gays. And the thoughts are uhhhh there is nothing wrong with us, love is love, punch a homophobe today. 
> 
> I just shdjdjjdjd love this pairing so much,,,, we really did get a queer religious character of colour whose entire personality wasn't just "being gay makes me sad and I hate myself". This is the representation I want, damn it. Also more queer characters in mainstream fantasy.


End file.
